One of the hands pushing me toward this new daily practice was Roxane Gay’s book of essays, Bad Feminist. I’ve been reading it slowly over the last six weeks, and I gave copies as Christmas gifts. I’m reading Roxane’s book on my Kindle. I know, Bad Writer. Anyway, my secret hope is that every time I open the book, there will be more to read, as if the words are coming from some secret well that will never dry up.
I am messy. I’m not trying to be an example. I am not trying to be perfect. I am not trying to say I have all the answers. I am not trying to say I’m right. I am just trying—trying to support what I believe in, trying to do some good in this world, trying to make some noise with my writing while also being myself: a woman who loves pink and likes to get freaky and sometimes dances her ass off to music she knows, she knows, is terrible for women and who sometimes plays dumb with repairmen because it’s just easier to let them feel macho than it is to stand on the moral high ground.
In my case, I do think I’ve been trying to be perfect, which has perhaps prevented me from being. But no longer. My new goal is to try to be human.
As a smart woman recently said to me, Let’s all be human beings together.